Learning to fly

I'm concerned about your love life, my friend emailed me today. You're constantly swooping in to save the bird with the broken wing, and I'm just getting really fed up of watching the bird peck you, flap in your face a bit and then waddle off to do a poo in the corner.

I know, I emailed back, sniggering a little bit (I love the way she makes animals people. It's one of my favourite things about her). I can't help it. So what do I do?

Be a little more cautious before you pick them up, she replied. Don't assume that if they're squawking, it's because they're hurt. Don't assume that it's your job to fix them. Let them do a poo in their own bloody corner, and - if you can - try and find a healthy one. Okay?

Gotcha, I emailed back.

And that's the great thing about mates. If you can't stop looking for broken wings, at least they can try and guide you towards the birds that can still fly properly.

Head in the desert island sand

Sometimes, you don't realise how you're behaving until somebody points it out to you.

"Hols," the BBC said tiredly ten minutes ago. "We need to work out where you're going to be for TBJITW results on Thursday."
"I haven't decided yet," I replied nervously.
"You need to decide, because we need to work out hotels etc. And you also need to pick up your phone when we call you."
"Sorry," I said in a small voice. I couldn't argue with it: the producer has rung me four times in the last 12 hours, and each time I've listened to my phone ringing from another room and pretended - to myself, as well as to the BBC - that I couldn't hear it. The final time, I actually put my head under the duvet and convinced myself I was asleep.
"We know it's tough," the BBC said kindly. "But it's going to happen, and you need to just brave it out."
I'm sorry, I texted the producer ten minutes after I had shamefacedly put the phone down. I'm just scared.
I know, the producer texted back. Of course you are. But try and be scared and organised at the same time.

And this is what I do. When there's nothing left for me to do but wait, I stick my head firmly in the sand and pretend that the decision isn't there, or I'm not there: whichever makes it easier to bear. I did it when I got my GCSE results, and I did it when I got my A Level results, and I did it when I had my heart broken and couldn't get out of bed for three days (apart from to pee, and I had to make sure this was done when nobody else was in, or my friends would have lynched me en route and carried me, sobbing, to the pub). I did it when the rabbit died and everybody was crying, and I did it when I made a horrendous mistake at work and sent out an embargoed press release with the wrong embargo on it. I'm brave and I'm courageous, until all control has been taken away from me. When there's nothing left for me to do - when I've done absolutely everything I can - I panic, and I hide away. Partly because I'm terrified, partly because I'm terrified of being terrified, and partly because I hate not having any control over my life or my fate. All control feels like it has been taken temporarily away from me: my future is in the hands of other people, and it makes me very, very scared.

So I'm hiding. Or - I should say - I've hidden. I have always opened exam results in private, tucked away in a corner, and I wanted to do the same this time round. Not because it would make me happy, but because I didn't have the courage to do anything else. It's not about feeling ashamed in front of friends and family if I don't get in to the top 11 (for whatever reason, they appear to love me anyway), or even about appearing smug if I do get in to the top 11. It's just about making myself as small and invisible as possible, and shutting myself off as much as possible, so that I don't get hurt.

But I will get hurt. I know that. Yes, it's a big reality-competition, but it's also something that would change my entire life; more importantly, it's something I know I would be brilliant at. I could make it amazing, and it would make me better. And I want it. I'm scared of saying that I want it - because it's opening myself up - but I do. Hiding myself away is not going to make me hurt less: it's just going to be another thing I push away where it shouldn't be, like the sunflower seed my sister stuck up her nose when we were children.

Come on, my friend texted me. Don't do this. Don't sit on your own.
Five minutes ago, I finally replied.
Okay, I messaged. I'm coming. I'm terrified, but I'm coming.

And I'm going to go. I will be in public, with my friends, with a tv camera, and I will take the results on the chin. I will open myself up to something that matters to me, and let myself be upset if I don't get through (preferably in the toilets, where the BBC can't film me). I will take a deep breath, and I will let somebody hold my hand through it. Because if I've learnt one thing throughout this process, it's that I have to be brave. And I have to allow myself to want things, and want them openly.

When this process comes to an end, I want to finish it differently to how it began. Not locked away in the dark, and walking with my head held high.

This weekend the clocks changed

A blog is not a place to brag. It's not a place to show off, or convey smugness. It should contain objective, thought out content that is of interest to somebody other than the owner of the blog, or it may as well not exist at all.

Oh, sod it. Who am I kidding?

I just got ID'd. Properly ID'd. Not just a cursory eyebrow lift: a full blown, "show me your passport or you can't have a drink" IDing, and it wasn't a chat-up line at all because it was conducted with an air of distinct grumpiness. He didn't spend years building a restaurant empire, the manager said as I stared at him in shocked silence, so that some jumped up teenager could come and get his livelihood taken away from him.

"So show me your passport," he repeated. "Or you can order a coke."

"Teenager?" I spluttered eventually.

He narrowed his eyes at me.

"Or driving license," he growled.

"Jumped up teenager?"

The manager glared at me. This conversation could go on for some time: he could tell. 

"Do you want your pizza?" he snapped. "Because you can leave without that too if you want."

"No, no," I said hurriedly, shining at him. "I don't want the drink, thanks. I don't think I need one anymore."

And you know what? It's got no damn relevance to anyone other than me, so it shouldn't be on my blog at all. But - frankly - I'm twenty seven, and the chances of that ever happening to me again are pretty much zero. So I'm going to smugly bathe in the glory for just a little while longer. (And possibly move into a candlelit Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Watford permanently.) 

The clocks might have lost us an hour yesterday, but - what with living with my father, having no job, no money and a disastrous love-life - I appear to be moving in the opposite direction. Which can only be a good thing. 

After the 7.5 disaster, at least I've got a few extra years left in me now to improve my rating. 

The Paps

There was a distinct lack of paparazzi camped out on my front lawn this morning. I woke up early and tentatively threw open the curtains as wide as I could - shielding my eyes from the glare of their flashes - but there was nobody out there. Not even one little camera man. Then I walked around the house in nowt but a towel, lingering by the windows as often as I could, and: nothing. I even went to the shops to buy a lolly in my pyjamas, covered in paint (I've been redecorating, not that the public know that because nobody has had the foresight to report this to the papers), and not one person followed me. My over-sized sunglasses, frankly, were completely wasted. The lady at the newsagents clearly just thought I had had a nose job (which would be pointless because I have the world's most insignificant nose. It barely counts as one).

It's a disgrace, that's what it is. I'm going to ring up Heat and tell them how unimpressed I am by the media's downright refusal to invade my privacy. "I've got loads of secrets," I plan on telling them: "loads. And you only need to knock on my front door and I'll tell you all of them."

Journalists are lazy: we PRs all know this. But my God, I'm very nearly on a documentary on telly! A minute and a half on BBC Bristol already achieved, I tell you! It beggars belief. What do you have to do to get stalked round here: actually achieve something?

Tomorrow, luckily, the BBC are coming round. I shall tell them to stay outside and do a bit of filming through the 10 centimetre gap in the hedge that I shall make five minutes before they arrive. I didn't come this far to sink back down into obscurity and actually have to work for a living.

 

Not when I went online only yesterday and bought a fake moustache especially.

Survival Skills

Dad texted me this morning from wherever it is he's gone. (Italy, I think. Possibly Budapest.)

Did you get my present? the text said, which caused me some alarm: it's incredibly rare for me to miss any kind of gift, however tiny it is.

No, I replied. Where is it? Gimme.

On top of fridge, dad messaged. Enjoy.

Why dad decided to leave a present on top of the fridge I have no idea: he knows full well that left to my own devices I'll live on Pot Noodles and cheese muffins, and neither of these need to be kept cold. It was very lucky, I thought as I wiped a bit of butter off my foot and left the rest of it on the floor, that it was a present and not a first aid kit or the back door keys, because it could have been a very dangerous oversight in the event of an accident with a tin opener.

On top of the fridge was The Worst-case Scenario Survival Handbook, with a note. Just in case, dad had written. Very useful, he added at the bottom of the electricity bill he hadn't opened (we both like doing that: if in doubt, just turn it over and doodle a happy face on the back).

I stared at the book for a few minutes, perplexed. In case of what? I wanted to text him, but that would be ungrateful and then he wouldn't bring me anything back from Italy (or Budapest) either. We had been laughing about desert island survival techniques earlier in the week, so perhaps this was to help me out if I got the job; or, perhaps it was to help me out during the four days this 27 year old adult would be spending all on her own. Including: How To Survive Runaway Camels; UFO adbuctions and leeches, it said on the front. Which was a little alarming, to be frank: when dad rang to mention the builders were coming at 9am on Friday, he hadn't mentioned any camels, UFOs or leeches at all. Perhaps he thought it was self-explanatory. We do have a half-hearted pond in our back garden after all, and the solar lights mum put in the flowerbeds would make it terribly easy to land a spaceship there.

After a quick browse, however, I came to the conclusion that the book is genius. How to crash land a plane on water, it said. How to stop a runaway passenger train. How to navigate a minefield (with the brilliant first suggestion: keep your eyes on your feet and don't move). How to jump from rooftop to rooftop (summarised: if you can't, then don't).

As a book, it's perfect. Women enjoy reading it because they can go shopping afterwards -reassured that there will be no minefields or runaway horses - and men enjoy reading it because they can go shopping afterwards and pretend that there might be. I have no doubt at all that after reading it dad felt a little more comfortable as a man, because he now knows how to catch a fish without a rod and survive a riptide. On the other hand, as a woman I feel reassured by the advice given (although, frankly, if I ever get stuck down a well I am so not inching up in an L shape, because it'll make my jeans dirty).

It missed out a few key survival tips, however, that would also be very useful in every day life. How to make sure your dad doesn't see the splodge of black insoluble paint you dropped on the carpet, for instance, would be handy. How to clean the house in 2.5 minutes, when he gets back earlier than you thought he would. How to hide his favourite, now smashed, mug; and pretend you didn't spend the emergency household money on Dominos.

On a larger scale, other techniques would have been appreciated over the last few weeks. How to get a second date would have been great, as would How not to cry in front of a BBC film crew. How to get more than 20 votes a day, would have been brilliant, as would How to make your mates hate you a little bit less. How to know when 'I'll call you' actually means I'll call you; How to conduct yourself on national radio when rated out of 10; How to say the right thing to Important People at the right time; How to get foot back out of mouth; How to know which foundation doesn't make your skin look orange. There are many, many topics that I would really quite have liked a 5 stage plan for over the last few weeks, but there weren't any. Nope: no books there. Just camels and UFOs and leeches, which - although thrilled that I can now avoid them - are nowhere near as dangerous as the holes I fall into on a daily basis. Holes that I do actually need a helping hand with.

Well? dad texted after half an hour. What did you think?

Umm, I texted back: handy. Very handy.

Because I'll say this for the book. When dad gets home in half an hour and sees the state of the house, knowing how to survive a volcano eruption might just be the most useful thing I've learnt all day.

TBJITW Thoughts

Sarah Louise and I decided this evening that there is no reason why we shouldn't both go through to the final of TBJITW on Thursday. 

It's unlikely, admittedly. It would be like casting Orlando Bloom and the dude that dates Keira Knightley in the same film: some would argue that it's doubling up. "Right," the Important People would say on the island: "would the posh British writer chick with the artistic bent and passion for travelling please step forward?" And then there would be trouble, obviously. Apart from colouring and height (we're polar opposites), there would be little to distinguish Sarah and I from each other: we'd both try and step on to the same spot at the same time, and then I'd probably squish her (she's only tiny). We're both from Hertfordshire, we're both single, and we both say stupid things occasionally and then regret it. We even both have synesthesia: she sees colours in numbers and dates, and I see them in sounds. So they wouldn't even be able to use that pub-quiz knowledge to differentiate us.

As a result, the better we've gotten to know each other, the sadder we have become. "There is no way we'll both go through," Sarah announced over lunch a few days ago: "we're just too similar. I think one British hippy chick is probably enough for the island."

"There's a reason there was only one ginger in the Spice Girls," I agreed, sighing and chewing on my straw (dad wasn't there to shout at me: he really hates it when I chew on straws). "If only one of us was from Mexico it would be an entirely different story."

Today, however, I've revised my opinion. This isn't a girl band: it's not even a mixed group. It's a job. PRability and aesthetics aside - however good or amazing the job is - it is still a job. Whoever gets it has to be able to do it and do it well, and (yes, I'll get shot for saying this, but...) there simply aren't that many people in the long-list that reasonably could. The fact that Sarah and I have similar talents - writing, exploring, drawing, getting spinach stuck between our teeth after eating a panini - should just make us both qualified, not exclude the other one from the competition. Similarly, our nationality should be nothing more than a footnote at the bottom of the page.

Ultimately, every person writes differently, draws differently, sees the world differently, reports back on it differently. Whoever wins the job will do the job their own way, in their own inimitable style, and with their own creative slant. There is no such thing as a niche when it comes to talent: however similar the passions, the execution will always be different. And we all see the world in a very different way, however close the perspectives might seem to an outsider. In the case of Sarah and I, this probably has something to do with our heights.

If we're the right candidates - and only if, because I have no idea what the other 46 have to offer - then I'm going to have a renewed faith that we can both get through to the next stage, rather than cynically assuming that we cancel each other out. 

We'll just have to make sure that when we come back we don't both audition for the same girl group. I think that would be pushing our luck.

Blog Weirdness

"So," my grandad said when I popped my head through the door for another Ginger Nut biscuit, "how did the interview day go?"

"Well," I said, pulling my feet on to the couch for a good story-telling session. Thirty seconds later, I abruptly stopped talking. Grandad had glazed over and his smile looked stuck on like the smile on a Mr Potato Head. "You've heard this already, haven't you," I stated flatly.

"Umm..." He looked a little awkward. "Well, yes. I read your blog every day. But that doesn't mean I don't want to hear about it," he added hurriedly.

"I can't tell you a story if you've already heard it!" I exclaimed. 

"Of course you can," Grandad said kindly. "So you had salmon, eh? What type of salmon was it? Was it nice?"

Why are you not ringing me? I texted my sister yesterday. 

Busy with coursework, she texted back. But don't worry, am reading blog.

Not quite same thing, I replied. 

Nearly, though. And PB is douchebag. Will kill when coursework handed in. Love u. 

Mum, on the other hand, appears to be engaging the blog as some kind of third party to every conversation we have. 

"My students are being little... Hang on," she'll say. "Are you going to write about this? Okay, write: my students are being little cherubs. That'll get them on side." 

"Mum," I'll sigh loudly. "Can we please forget the blog exists? It's supposed to be the silent witness, not the prime suspect." 

"Okay," mum will agree. "For the record - and make sure you write this down - mum has agreed not to keep referring to blog during conversations."

You're not a 7.5, emailed a lovely boy I have never met, you're an 11. "What's the swan thing?" another asked. "And some men do ring when they say they will," agreed a third.

"Sorry about the date thing," the BBC rang to say. "Read your blog, didn't realise you were so upset about it. Wouldn't have asked to come if we had known."

"I'm Indecently Beautiful?" emailed Indecently Beautiful Boy. "Awesome." 

The problem is that sometimes I forget that other people can read this little blog. I know that sounds daft - because if I didn't want anyone to read it, I wouldn't put it up on the internet to start with - but it's true. It's like getting undressed without closing my curtains; I forget that the world can see me (and yes, I do this too). Perhaps more significantly, I find it hard to believe that anyone would want to see me. So I chat, and I write, and I take my top off, without a thought for who else is out there or what they can see. And then I'm genuinely surprised that people know all about me before I've even told them. 

I love it, obviously. I'm a writer, so readers are the missing piece of my jigsaw: without them I don't make sense at all. But sometimes it would be nice to have a conversation with my nearest and dearest without being prompted half way through with: "You missed out the bit about the pen." It makes telling stories very difficult when everybody already knows the ending.

Drinks Friday? my friend texted me last night. 

Okay, I messaged back. Out of interest, are you reading my blog?

What blog? he said.

Brilliant, I answered. 

Now I've got one more story to tell.

GU Days

I have a confession to make.

Every now and then (actually a little more regularly than that) I have a secret, special day. I call it, in my head, The GU Day.

When I was a child, "when I grow up" was one of my favourite expressions (along with "why?" and "I hate you," obviously). "When I grow up," I would tell my mum, being dragged away from the fridge, "I'm going to eat whipped cream from the can all day." "When I grow up," I would tell my dad, "I'm going to tell you what to do." "When I grow up," I would tell my English teachers, "I'm going to use as many semi-colons as I want" (they said I was "too young to understand them properly"). Whether it was mud on my face or a good old door slamming or music too loud or a plate full of roast potatoes and gravy and no peas at all or a day spent in bed with Tess of The D'urbervilles, it was all going to be reserved - I promised anyone who would listen - for when I was grown up. "Just you wait," I would warn my mum, wagging my middle finger at her, cream all over my face. "I'll make myself sick."

"I don't doubt it for a minute," my mum would yawn, and then she would send me outside so that I could "eat worms or whatever it is you do out there when I'm not looking".

So, now that I'm old enough to have little lines around my eyes and bills that find me no matter how many times I move house, I cheer myself up by reminding myself of the freedom I've achieved with them. My GU day - Grown Up Day - is one of the things that reminds me I'm still the same person, just a little bigger. 

I never really plan a GU day, actually: I just wake up and know. When I was working, I'd factor it in. I'd have a hot chocolate with marshmallows before work, and I'd play the radio so loudly I'd get told off; I'd walk around the office without my shoes on and drink water out of the toilet sink tap. Now that I'm not working, it's obviously easier. I'll buy a can of whipped cream, write HOLLY on it and spray it into my mouth in front of the telly. I'll get into the car, turn the radio on and see how loudly I can scream, just for fun. I'll go for a walk and not tell anybody where I'm going, or when I'm planning on coming back. I'll go into the garden and walk around in the flower beds in white socks; buy a book and bend the pages over; use every single bit of punctuation I can get my hands on.

It makes me happy, you see. It's a like a secret I have with myself. Ha, I laugh in my head. Ahaha. I have to pay income tax, but look! I can make a cake and eat the mix before it's cooked: all of it! I don't have to just lick the spoon!

And why is that relevant today? Today, I'm sick. I've got a stonking, old fashioned, jigsaw puzzle, chicken soup common cold. And I'm on my own for three days (dad has gone on holiday). So what have I spent the day doing? Blowing my nose and throwing the tissues across the room, and then not picking them up when they don't make the bin. Eating ready-made mash with beans, with a spoon, followed by an entire Terry's Chocolate Orange. Reading magazines in the bath. Watching Scrubs without feeling the need to check the news to see what's going on in the world.  

And how do I feel? Physically ropey; emotionally glorious. Because it's not just about having fun, and proving that my life is my own. Just for a few minutes - just as I'm standing in my grubby white socks with a can of cream aimed down my throat - I'm not 27 year old Holly Smale with a broken laptop and a spent overdraft and a brand new line on her face that will not go away, no matter how much moisturiser I use. No: I'm 5 year old Holly Smale with freckles all over my face and a turned up little nose and the whole world in front of me; 6 year old Holly Smale who wants to be an aeroplane pilot; 7 year old Holly Smale who - even though she knows it's probably not true - still kind of believes in fairies, and checks under flowers now and then just to make sure.

So, although my throat hurts and my nose is running and I have to drink Lemsip - which I hate - today has been a great day, as all GU Days are. Because, in the very smallest way, I managed to reach back into the past and touch the little Me. I managed to tap into the part of Me that shrivelled up on the first Christmas morning where I woke up and wasn't really that excited. And I managed to drag the little Me who couldn't see anything but good in everybody, no matter what she saw to the contrary, back out again.

So, frankly, even though I'm as sick as a dog, it was a good day: and I can't wait 'til the next one. Because they make the fact that I'm so much older - and not a lot wiser - so, so much easier to bear.

The Apprentice

Last night, I watched The Apprentice with a strange sinking feeling in my stomach. One dream job, one large wage, too many applicants. Everybody made to look rather silly on camera as they try not to elbow each other in the face in front of Alan Sugar. It wasn't too difficult to work out why my cheese muffin was poised in front of my mouth in shock.

"I would rather die than apply for The Apprentice," I remember stoically telling my friend last year. "It's degrading."

Last night, while my muffin was still in mid-air, said friend texted me.

U realise ur in The Apprentice, she wrote, except the bikini clad version.

Am not, I texted back. Is rubbish, I texted again in a panic, putting my muffin down. 

Are, she responded. And then my phone beeped again. Ahahahaha, she added.

Is about talent, I texted back. Not same at all. Nothing like it.

Ahahahaha she texted back, so I turned my phone off.

The two groups - I argued internally for the rest of the programme - are polar opposites. TBJITW candidates are - by and large - the slightly scruffy creative types, with a deep and inherent love of waterfalls, butterflies and 'that moment when the sun hits the water just right'. TA candidates, on the other hand, are fiercely booted, fond of shirts that 'jazz' up their suits and keen on comparing profits to orgasms. Put a TBJITWer in a room with Alan Sugar, and we'll tell him to "totally, like, chill, man," before adding that we "won't be spoken to like that, dude," and leaving the room in a flip-flopped strop. Ask a TAer if he scuba dives or has an interest in the local people, and they'll claim that it is "largely irrelevant" and aggressively ask if you want to "step outside for a minute to discuss it further". 

We share nothing, I thought as I watched my television in vague horror: and that included intelligence (charging £300 to clean three cars?), dress sense (purple satin?) and perspective on life ("This is what it's all about," one of the male candidates sighed as he entered the fish-tanked, plasma-screened accommodation, running his fingers greedily along the white leather couch). I watched them talk about themselves continuously, compare themselves with each other continuously, push forward their own meagre attributes continuously, however debatable they were. I watched them talk over each other to try and make themselves heard, glare at each other over a table, and rip each other apart as soon as they left a room. All for what? The chance at a job that most of them wouldn't be skilled enough to do, even if they got it.

Ahahahah, my friend's text kept repeating in my head. Ahahaha. Because just how different are we, really? Take away the details, and underneath is a pretty similar animal. TBJITWers might be a little more floopy, a little more soya milk, a little more Let Me Ride An Ostrich, but we're also fiercely ambitious: we wouldn't be here if we weren't. And TAers - similarly - just want something that's going to change their lives and help them achieve their dreams. They want to escape as well, even if it's just to a white-carpeted apartment in North London. 

Okay, so we go about it in different ways - and in very different outfits - but scrape the surface with a couple of fingernails and it's the same story: a competition to win a life that you wouldn't otherwise get, but believe you deserve. And yes, the winner of TBJITW will be a 'creative, outdoorsy' type, and the winner of TA will be a 'businessy, indoorsy type', but what difference does that make in the grander scale of things?

Indoors or outdoors, stories or excel sheets, fish-tanks or open water, we're all people who are prepared to publicly compete for our dreams. And, frankly, there isn't a satin shirt in the world that can cover that up.  

Mum complains

My mum is not happy with the below post.

"I come across as really mean," she complained. "I sound like a witch."
"Don't be silly," I said. "Witches don't eat toast."
"You left out a lot of the conversation," she added, ignoring me. "For instance, you didn't mention the bit where I said I wished I was there to give you a cuddle."
"It wasn't really relevant, mum," I pointed out.
"I said it twice, though. I said I wanted to give you a cuddle twice. And you didn't even mention it."
"Mum," I said patiently. "I have to edit. And the cuddles didn't really fit into the story."
"But they make me sound less mean," she said miserably. I heard her eat another piece of toast.
"Are you still eating toast?" I asked.
"It's been a long day. Also, you spelt publically wrong. It's publicly. You've done that twice now."
"Oh crap. Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure, yes. I'm an English teacher."
"Oh yeah. Okay, I'll change it. I'm freestyling: there's no spell check. Pretty impressive, ey? In this day and age, I think that's pretty impressive."
"Not really," mum said tiredly. "Anyway. Big cuddles: I love you. Night sweetheart."
"Night," I said.

You see, mum? I didn't leave out the cuddles that time. You just have to choose which cuddles fit the story, that's all.

Theft on many scales

Today, everything both starts again and goes back to normal.

"That's a bit melodramatic, isn't it?" my mum said when I told her this on waking. "Goodness. Just how hard can it have been for Christ's sake?"
"It was a very exhausting process," I replied pithily.
"What," she said: "like a real job? Most people do ten hours of work and still manage to find time to do the laundry and feed the cat without collapsing into a corner with a hand strewn across their foreheads, Holly."
"It's not about physical exhaustion, mum," I announced (I always do this when peeved: I say the word mum like it's an insult). "It has been a journey. I have learnt a lot about myself, and my life, and what I want, and who I want to be. It has been an emotional rollercoaster," I added with dignity.
"Oh, really," she said with a distinct lack of punctuation. "What have you learnt?"
"Well," I said, staring thoughtfully out of the window. "I've learnt that... I've learnt that I really, really like beautiful islands in the Whitsundays."
There was a pause. Apparently this was not sufficiently rollercoaster-y.
"And I don't want to live with dad anymore, really," I added in a rush: "I need to find my own place pretty quickly. And I don't like being broke, and I really, really, really want to write forever and permanently. And I've learnt that boys are mean, and I talk too much. And I do too much to my hair. And I need to go travelling, as soon as I've got any money, which I don't have, so I need to get a job too."
There was a silence down the phone. I could hear mum was eating toast.
"I've learnt that my life kind of sucks, really," I summarised miserably.
I listen to mum swallow.
"And you didn't already know this?" she asked eventually. "I mean, forgive me if I'm wrong, Holly, but you didn't move home to party with your father: you moved home so you could write, and save money, and go travelling. You've always been rubbish with boys, and you've always talked too much. And don't get me started on your hair: if you had just left it alone when you were 15 like I told you to, you wouldn't be in this mess to start with." She took another bite of breakfast. "Your life temporarily sucks," she added, "so that it can be less sucky eventually. But we all knew that. I don't see what this competition has done other than make how sucky your life is public to the rest of the country."
"Alright, alright," I snapped. "I just like emotional journeys, mum. You know that. I don't want to feel like I'm back to the beginning, only four weeks behind, poorer and less popular. I have to feel like I've come out of this with something I didn't have to begin with."
"Well," mum said, "you have. You stole that pen from the Trafalgar Hotel, didn't you?"

She's right, of course. I did steal the pen from the Trafalgar Hotel. (And the stress ball, and the pack of mints, and the clip-board with fluffy-velvet lining.) And I probably haven't learnt a lot about myself that I didn't know already, except that I've announced it publicly, on air, to journalists and to a BBC film crew.

And that, I think, is the difference. In every sense possible, I have spent my life too scared of being rejected to put myself out there. In answer to the question "what do you do?" my response is usually: "I'm unemployed and I... er... you know... do a bit of scribbling in my spare time". I have never had the courage to say: "I am a writer. That's what I do. I write"; I have never had the courage to say it to myself, let alone to anyone else. I have put everything on the line to do it - left behind my job, my friends, a flat in London, a wage, the money to wear clothes that make me vaguely attractive - and yet I have never been able to hold my head up and say: "and if I fail, so be it. Here I am." I have spent my life brave enough to follow my dreams, and yet too scared to give them to anyone else to look at. Too terrified of having them broken to let them leave my hands.

Because of this competition - because I have had no choice ("if you don't start up a blog, you're out") - I have been pushed, blinking, into having to believe in myself, and having to risk being rejected. In a writing sense, but also in a romantic sense. I have gone from refusing dates for six months out of fear of being hurt again, and writing in my room in the dark for the same reason, to dating - and hurting - on national radio and putting my writing where everyone can see it. Nothing has changed - what I want has not changed - but my ability to say it aloud, to myself and to everyone else, has altered completely.

Today, my life goes back to normal. I will drink coffee, eat toast, write, perhaps go for lunch with Sarah (other Brit candidate: that's not normal, obviously. I didn't know her before hand). But, at the same time, I'm not sure it ever will go back to how it was before. Something has changed in me that I don't think will ever change back, and I'm not stiff with terror anymore that somebody will shatter my hopes and dreams and I will never be able to put myself back together again. Whatever happens, I think I now have the confidence to stand up and say "and if I fail, so be it. Here I am".

And that - along with the pen - is something I will steal from the last few weeks and carry around with me forever.

Votes

It's a few hours now until voting for TBJITW closes, and I think I can safely say that I did not dramatically scamper up the charts in a final, astonishing display of popularity.

"Votes don't count, though, right?" I said to the Important People and fellow candidates yesterday. There was a silence. "Right?" I repeated anxiously.

"Mmm," somebody said, so I looked at the desk and pretended to be really interested in one of the extraordinarily strong mints they gave us: presumably because we're British and not famous for our incredible dental hygiene.

Of course they count, though. I know that. If they didn't count, they wouldn't have initiated them to start with. That's not my main problem, however. My main problem is: how do I make my friends like me again? After three weeks of thrusting myself in their faces - "Me! Vote for me! My life! Me!" - how easy will it be to make myself bearable again? How can I convince them that I don't want to talk about islands, or votes, or radios, or dates, or myself, when that's all I've done for nearly a month? When I can hardly stand to be with myself because of it?

The last three and a half weeks have been very, very strange and exciting for me, but they must have been incredibly dull for the people closest to me. I would imagine that it's like standing in the sidelines watching somebody playing Crazy Golf: you're not quite sure why they're doing it, and it's not a lot of fun to watch, but you're cheering anyway because they look like they need a bit of encouragement. Which my friends and family have done manfully: loyally and steadfastedly waving their little Holly banners, even though they probably want to ram it down my selfish throat. Are they proud? Of course not. What have I actually done to make them proud? Diddley. Written a little limerick - the kind of thing I write in their birthday cards - and made a 60 second film featuring my ugly mug. I haven't cured cancer, I haven't even written something they can stick on their bookshelves. But have they been amazing? Absolutely.

So, do I care that my votes are quite low, in the scale of things? Not really. The people I needed got behind me, and that has meant everything. And yes, they may have wanted to kill me. And yes, they may have had a million things they would rather do with that precious thirty seconds every day. But they bolstered me up, and they did what they could to make me feel like I wasn't being foolish. 

Which, of course, I was. Because when this is all over - in just over a week, in all likelihood - it will be these very people that I crawl to for a pint and a packet of spare rib flavoured crisps. It will be these people who pretend to look interested when I tell them how devastated and flat I feel. And it will be these people who give me a hug when I tell them that I don't know what I'm going to do next, because my whole life has been tipped upside down and the contents of it have been flung on to the floor.

Thankyou. Anyone who voted, but particularly my family, and Hel: who tirelessly campaigned, even though she must have thought this the silliest thing I have ever done (and that is saying something). Thankyou.

And, as for votes? Clare from Taiwan can have them. I got all the votes I needed.

The perils of fame

The thing with being famous is that everybody wants a piece of you.

Ping, said the bell in the Holiday Inn reception. Ping.
The receptionist licked her middle finger and turned a page of her magazine over.
Ping.
The receptionist looked at me incredulously, and then at the bell.
"What?" she said.
"I've got a room," I said modestly. Not for me the demands of divas. I know how important it is to be down with the people: I read Heat.
"Yeah," she confirmed. "Probably." And then she looked at me for a couple of seconds and recognition dawned in her eyes, so I gave her a look that said: yes, I know you saw a thumbnail sized picture of me in Metro, but please try and behave with a little self-respect. Don't start crying or screaming or anything: it just doesn't impress me. I am a very down-to-earth person, you know. It's part of my appeal.
"You're from Tescos, right?" she said.
"Umm." I looked at my bags. "No. I shop there, but I wouldn't say it's my origin."
Receptionist stared at me suspiciously.
"You sure you're not from Tescos?"
"Pretty sure, yes."
"Well. Name?"
I smiled warmly, enjoying the game. As if she hadn't been looking forward to this meeting all day. As if she hadn't ironed her Holiday Inn outfit especially. I could smell the extra-special starch from where I was standing.
"Holly Smale," I said, holding out my hand. "Nice to meet you."
Receptionist stared at my hand suspiciously.
"Right." She edged away slightly. "Sign here."
"What would you like me to write?" I asked. "Perhaps all the best from the Whitsundays, to you and your whole family?"
"The whats?" she said narrowly. "Your name will be fine. And I'll need your passport too."
"Goodness," I exclaimed, taken aback. There should be some kind of boundary, I thought: manners that non-famous people should adopt when confronted with celebrity. Demanding somebody else's passport is just not polite, and - frankly - it reeks of desperation. "Everybody just wants a piece of me," I confided sadly, leaning on the reception.
"Not really," she snapped back. "Just your passport. You can collect it again on check-out."
"Okay," I said, shaking my head and handing it out. "It's all very exhausting. I haven't slept in hours."
"Do you need a hand with your bags?" the receptionist said, ignoring me.
"Gosh, I'm not that famous," I said, tinkling with laughter. "As if I can't carry my own bags!" Then I paused. "Actually, I shouldn't be carrying my own bags. I was in Metro you know."
The receptionist rolled her eyes.
"Lovely. I'll get somebody else to help you. You're in room 409," she added.
"Keep it down," I hissed urgently. "You can't tell the paparazzi that! I'll be hounded. Hounded, I tell you. I've only just managed to get rid of them!"
The receptionist looked over my shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
"I can't see any paparazzi."
"Well of course not. I just told you: I managed to get rid of them. But you just wait: all I have to do is ring them up and tell them where I am and exactly what I'm wearing, and they'll be in the local restaurant in, like, forty five minutes flat. It's the BBC, you know. BBC One. Not even BBC Two."
"I've got another customer," the receptionist announced after a long pause. "I just heard them coming. From a long way away. We can't see them yet, but I know they're coming."
"Okay," I said understandingly, just like a common non-famous person. "I'll carry my bags myself."
And then I walked into the lift and pressed all of the buttons, in case the receptionist could see which floor I was heading to. As nice as she was, I didn't want her ringing me up at midnight and offering me sandwiches on the house and free pay-per-view films and what-not. She was obviously very taken with me, but you have to draw lines somewhere. Otherwise it would be embarrassing for everybody.

After all, fame's just all about keeping it in perspective, you know? Keeping it real. I learnt that from J-Lo herself.

I'm back

Right.

After a couple of wobbles, my sense of humour is firmly back on track again. Which is good, because life is terribly hard work without it. It seems to involve a lot of stressing and worrying and holding certain fingers up to the sky, and I simply don't have time for that. I've got things to do, you know.

"Have you ever been in labour?" my mum texted me this morning.
I looked at my phone blankly for a few minutes. Just how much attention, I thought, does my mother pay to my private life? Not much, apparently.
"No," I texted back eventually.
"Didn't think so," she replied. "Just see how exhausted you are after 24 hours of labour, darling, that's all I'm going to say. You need to get a bit of perspective. Riding on the London Eye and going for lunch at a posh hotel is really not that tiring, on the grander scale of things."

And she has a point, obviously. That's what I did yesterday: I rode on the London Eye and I ate little bits of salmon on top of little bits of potato, with a few pieces of pickled aubergine thrown in for good measure. It was hardly climbing Kilimanhjaro (and I have to make that point, in case Cheryl Cole and Chris Moyles decide to start texting me first thing in the morning as well).

So why was I so exhausted? I think it was because I've never been on my best behaviour for so long. It was like tapping a champagne glass and then speaking at a wedding for a full 24 hours (or, I'd imagine it was like that: I've never actually been to one).

From meeting the BBC at 7.30 the night before, to sitting in a radio studio and being mocked/teased/tortured by a group of boys - one of whom I quite liked - to getting up at 6.30am to be grilled by Important People for ten hours straight on "just how good I am at scuba diving" (not very: I've only been once) and "am I actually a good writer?" (almost definitely not), I was on constant display. It was like being in a shop window, except that nobody really cared what I looked like: they wanted to know what I was going to say. Or not say, in some cases. ("Who here speaks more than one language?" Seven hands go up. Mine stays firmly down. "Holly? Any other languages?" "No," I admitted, fiddling with my fork. "But I speak one very well.")

And it was exhausting: emotionally, physically and psychologically exhausting. The BBC, unfortunately, have become my sounding board: which I suppose is the point of a documentary. They're like loving aunties: there to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart and give you a pat when it all goes wrong. Except that - unlike loving aunties - they're planning on showing the pieces to millions of people when it's all over, for entertainment purposes.
"I'm flamin' knackered," I said to the camera, slumping into my seat and wiping my nose on my sleeve. (You see? A month ago, I wouldn't have dreamt of slumping in front of the BBC, let alone using my clothes as a handkerchief on national telly.)
"How did it go?" they asked.
"You saw it," I pointed out. "You were filming all of it. Can't you just watch it for yourselves?"
"No, because we have to know how you think it went."
"Oh. Well. Yeah. You know. Alright. I guess." I paused. "Apart from the bit where I was talking really loudly and telling a rubbish anecdote, and then I forgot what I was saying and slammed to a halt in front of the whole board room."
"That was pretty embarrassing," the BBC agreed.
"Are you allowed to say that? Aren't you supposed to be objective?"
"Objectively, it was pretty embarrassing," they said. "Was it about a swan?"
"Eh? Oh. Yeah. Well. Anyway. I want a cigarette*. Do you think it'll work against me if I hop out for one now?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Okay. Guess I'll just stay here and suck on a biro then."

As for the date, I never want to hear about it again. Ever. On a large scale, it may well have ruined my chances with the job: I've come across as unprofessional, crude and sex-obsessed. And, on a small scale, I'm humiliated. 7.5, he gave me on the radio. 7.5. It's the worst date-mark in the world. Lower, and at least you've somehow offended them, which is something. But 7.5? It's the numerical equaivalent of a shrug. I'd have preferred a 3. I could have gone down in history as the worst, most public date on TalkSport history. Millions of men could have crossed me out of their little black books in one big gesture.

"Maybe he's shy?" my friend texted after reading my blog. "Have you thought of that?"
"He's not," I texted back. "Trust me. He's just not interested."

Which is, I think, the beauty of men. A 7.5 is a 7.5, and there's no ambivalence about it. They're not numerically dyslexic at all. They're just stupid.


*In case anyone from Queensland is reading this, I only smoke in severely stressful circumstances. And not publically. I am not an endorser of death at all.

The last 24 hours have been the most exhausting of my life.

I think I can say that with some certainty because I am never too tired to write, and - right now - I can barely form a sentence. I nearly forgot to add that second hyphen, which would have made the sentence grammatically incorrect and therefore abhorrent. You see? I'm clearly shattered.

24 hours of interviews, in one form or another. 24 hours of being on show, and struggling to make people - in one form or another - like me. Which, frankly, is touch and go at the best of times, even when I'm allowed a break and a pint in between sessions (which I wasn't).

I need a bath. I need bed, and a bath, and sleep: although hopefully not all together, or I'll drown.

I shall blog properly when words make sense again. And I can open my eyes without using my hands as props.

Carrot versus stick

Conversation 1:
"I'm not having a lot of luck with women at the moment," emailed my most indecently beautiful male friend* this morning. "At all. I haven't gotten any in ages."
"Don't be ridiculous," I emailed back. "You're indecently beautiful: you're just being a fussy britches." (I can say this, you see, because he's Australian, lives on the other side of the world and I will probably never see him again. You can say what you like in that situation.)
"I'm not," he electronically-sighed back. "And you're always drunk when we're together, which is why you think that I'm hot."
"Once," I messaged. "Once! I was tipsy once, and it was your fault because you kept buying drinks. Anyway, you are hot: my friends need smelling salts whenever they see you. So stop being daft, please."
"Okay," he said. "When you get this job, can I come to your island and be your pool-boy please? For the whole six months?"
"Sure," I said, thinking: I'll just turn the automatic pool-filter off.

Conversation 2:
"We'd like to meet up with you," two literary agents said last week. "To read your stuff. We think we like it. But... well, if you got this job... that's a whole different story. We'd sign you on the spot."
"Umm," I replied. "Thanks?"

Conversation 3:
"God," I said this morning, looking up at the sky. "Tell me to mind my own business, but I'd like to just clarify something."
"What?" said God, amiably.
"Well," I continued, "I can't help but notice that if I get this job, I get the most beautiful island in the world for six months, space and time to write - as much as I want, as often as I want - every single day, a book deal, a sea to swim in, new friends to make, enough money to move out when I get home and the most beautiful man I know as my pool-boy."
"Right."
"And if I don't get this job, I get to live in my dad's spare room, stuffing envelopes for a living, writing in my lunch-breaks, no book deal, the local urine-coated pool to swim in, and no beautiful man at all."
"Right."
"It's a bit all-or-nothing, isn't it?" I pointed out.
"You could see it that way, yes," God said kindly.
There was a pause.
"Not that I'm complaining," I said eventually, "but do you think it's fair to be dangling so many carrots in front of one little donkey's nose?"
"Probably not," God said, chuckling, "but it's awfully funny to watch, don't you think?"


He's got a dry sense of humour, that one, but the best Gods do. Anyway, I think he might be right. I don't want to laugh at it all, but I can't help myself.

The carrot is always better than the stick, after all.




* who I am obviously slightly in love with - in a look-but-don't-touch kind of way - but that goes without saying. He doesn't read this Blog, luckily.

Left hook

The great thing about life is that it constantly surprises.

Just when you think you've adjusted to everything it can throw at you, it lobs you something else. BBC film crew? A cinch. National radio? No problem. GMTV tomorrow morning? Bring it on.

Tonight, however, I've got a whole new challenge. As predicted, my instincts are absolutely, irrevocably broken. The 'very good date,' apparently, was not very good at all. PB has not contacted me since, apart from to ring me from the radio studio to tell me what time to turn up to TalkSport tonight. In a very Producery-And-Not-Date capacity, he made it clear. When I decided to text him with Have you decided what you're going to tell everyone on air if they ask about it? [translation: Are you going to tell 3.5 million men that I'm a repulsive muppet, and - if so - do you think you could warn me first?] - I received the most eloquent of male responses: silence.

So, this evening I get to enjoy the most fun of experiences - being told that you're "great as a mate" by someone you really quite fancy - on national radio. And I won't even be able to pull my jumper over my head afterwards and knock myself out on cheap vodka, because the BBC are going to be filming it and I have to get up at 5.30am tomorrow for The Most Important Day Of The Competition (meeting the CEO of Hamilton Island).

"What did you do?" my sister asked me last night.
"What do you mean, what did I do?" I replied in indignation. "Why does it have to be something I've done?"
"Holly," she said patiently. "He obviously found you remotely attractive, or he wouldn't have asked you out on national radio in the first place. So what did you do, or - more specifically - what did you say to change that? Did you tell him your crap swan anecdote again?"
"What is it about the swan anecdote?! Seriously, it's not that bad!"
"Hmm," she said, unconvinced. "Well. Maybe it was a dare. Maybe the date was a set-up to start with, and they all thought it would be really funny and something to laugh at you about on radio. They probably bet a fiver on it, or something."
"Thanks," I replied in a small voice. "Now I feel stupid on top of everything else."
"Oh, Big One," she sighed (that's what she calls me, by the way. It's all comparitive, though: she's just irrationally tiny.) "One day somebody out there will think the swan thing is cute," she reassured me. "And then you'll be alright. In the meantime, go in there with your head held high and pretend you thought the date sucked anyway."

So that's what I'm going to do. "Mmmyeehaha," I'm going to say if it crops up. "Fine. You know. Nice food. Whatever."

Or that's what I'm planning to say, anyway. My pathological tendency to tell the truth, however, means that I'll probably end up blurting "What did I do wrong? Hey? Will somebody please tell me what I keep doing wrong?!" on air.

And that's the great thing about life. Next time I get asked out on national radio, I'm saying no. It chucks you a left hook, and you just learn how to duck.

But not before you've been firmly punched in the mouth, obviously.

Here Comes The Sun

Today was the first day of spring.

I know this, because when I accidentally cut up a Volvo in my Focus* the driver smiled and waved at me instead of sticking up a finger that would make his mum smack him. I also know this because the population of Welwyn Garden City increased ten fold in the space of an hour: it was like spreading honey on the pavement and watching the ants gather. And everyone - and I mean everyone, including the kid who hangs out under the bench near MacDonalds - was smiling. In a good, happy kind of way, and not in a 'I'm going to nick your purse' kind of way.

We Brits are not known for our sunny tempers. We're known for our acerbic wit, our dislike of people who stand on the wrong side of the escalators and our ability/desire to drink ten pints on a Friday or Saturday night even if we don't like beer. We pride ourselves on it. This, we say rather smugly, is part of our culture. We have castles, don't you know, we remind the Americans: Shakespeare came from here, we remind the Australians. We are allowed - nay, we are required - to be a little bit standoffish and mean. We're expected to be distinctly unimpressed by life. It's what we do. It's what our country has been built on: grumpiness and apathy in the face of even the most enthusiastic happiness.

Is it? Is it really a culture thing, or is it just a weather thing? Today, Welwyn Garden City turned into Barcelona. People were smiling at random clouds for no reason; they were smoking, when they don't normally smoke; they were buying coffees and sitting on the damp kerbs just because they could. Give it another couple of months - give us a few more degrees - and we'll turn into LA: people will be roller-skating in shorts, taking their bone-lazy dogs for walks all of a sudden and congratulating each other on the white marks where their watches used to be. It's not culture at all, I would hazard a guess. In fact, if Shakespeare wasn't a Brit, I severely doubt that he would have written King Lear or Othello at all: he would have cheered up and written Much Ado About Nothing 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5, like Rocky.

The sunshine does wonderful things to people. My dad and I popped out into the garden for a quick cup of tea this morning, and sat listening to the peace and quiet and feeling the sun on our cheeks. The wood-pigeons cooed, the starlings chattered, the squirrels bounced around the grass, and the cat - incoherent with happiness that we were finally on her territory rather than the other way round - made it very clear that she couldn't be more pleased by meuwing loudly every couple of seconds.

"This peace and quiet is bloody noisy, isn't it," my dad remarked after a couple of minutes. "I'm going back inside: my head is starting to hurt."

It isn't, of course, the beginning of summer. There never really is a real beginning of summer in England. Everyone kind of puts the flat of their hands out now and then and says "It's... it's sun... it's.... it might be sum... No. It's gone. Forget it." But, my God, when the sun comes and stays for more than a few minutes, we are delightful. We are the happiest, sunniest people in the world. The happiest, sunniest people, who just happen to be afflicted with fog, rain, cold, snow and grey skies for nine or ten months of the year.

Personally, I can appreciate the best of both worlds. I love the sunshine and the smiles, but I'm also very fond of the acerbic comments and the "why don't you just f*** off" when you accidentally splash a stranger in the local swimming pool. It's diverse, you see. It's edgy. You never know where you are with the Brits, and that's what makes us so much fun.

As for me, I didn't just escape a near-crash unscathed and unsworn at, but - in all my sunny optimism - I also managed to parallel park my car first time round as well.

Frankly, one can only imagine what other joys this summer has in store for me. I might even master the three-point-turn.



* It's not 'my' car. It's my dad's. Just as my favourite shoes are not 'my' shoes: they belong to my friend, and she thinks I lost them. It's all about the way you tell it, you see.

Ooh

I've just done a little research, and if i do have dyscalculia (yes, PB, I will do my best to get this confirmed), then it explains why I can't read maps, follow directions or - most importantly - park my car. That bit of my brain is a little bit broken, apparently.

So there you go, dad. This is why I scraped your car against a large cement bollard aged 18. You can't shout at me: it's politically incorrect.

Mwaha.

Am I dyslexic or just a bit thick?

"I'm numerically dyslexic," I told PB on Wednesday night (you see? This is why I'm single. How is that a good opening gambit on a first date?)
"Are you?" he said. "Or are you just crap at maths?"
"Well, yes: obviously I'm crap at maths. But I'm also numerically dyslexic."
"Has a doctor told you this?"
"No. Can doctors tell you things like that?"
"I think so. You can't just self-diagnose these things."
"I can. I self-diagnose myself all the time. It saves time."
"Go on then. What makes you think you have dyscalculia?"
"Is that what it's called?"
"Uhuh."
"That sounds quite cool actually. Okay, well: I don't know my own phone number. I've tried to remember it for a year and a half, and I can't do it. And it takes me three or four goes to dial a number, even when it's in front of me: the numbers jump around in my head like little frogs. I can't do simple maths in my head, and when I'm buying chocolate I tend to hand over notes so that I don't have to count the change."
There's a pause.
"Wow," he said eventually. "I feel bad now."
There's another pause.
"Are you sure you're not just a bit thick?" he asked, taking an uncomfortably long swig of his beer.

It's a good question. Am I just a bit thick? Possibly. The point is: it does actually affect your life. If, for instance, my phone runs out of battery and I'm stuck without money (this happens a lot), there's nothing I can do. I don't know anybody's numbers, apart from my grandad's landline. As a result, he is often called upon to "Google a bar in City somewhere: it begins with a 'P'". If I meet a boy I like in a club and I can't find my phone (often happens), I have to say "I don't know my number", which sounds like a 'please leave me alone' excuse, and they never ring. And, when I ring a radio station to ask them to get me on air for voting purposes, if my phone isn't next to me I can't tell them what my own number is to ring me back.

"It's a new phone," I've gotten used to saying. "I got it at the weekend. Still learning my number, how silly am I?" What I don't say is: I got the phone last summer, and the number hasn't changed since, but - apart from beginning in 07 - I couldn't tell you one single digit of it.

How many times, I wondered this morning when Heart FM sat on the phone for six minutes while I ran around the house trying to find a piece of paper with my own number on it, has this got in the way of success without me even realising it? And - more importantly - how many times has my local newsagent conned me out of a fiver? No wonder I'm in such an extraordinary amount of debt.

Numerically dyslexic or 'just a bit thick'? It's a good question. One that, now I come to think of it, I'm not sure I really want answering.

Keeping It In The Family Part Four

"I've been reading your blog," my grandad said when I rocked up today for a cup of tea and a Ginger Nut biscuit, "and I like it."

"I didn't even tell you I had one," I said in some concern. "Are you sure it's mine?"

"Yep. I was surfing some forums, and I found the link on one of them. It's definitely yours."

I looked at my 80something year old grandad for a couple of seconds.

"You were surfing some forums? Which forums?"

"You know. Just online forums about this job thing. It's very interesting. And did you know that one of your radio interviews is on Youtube? There's a video and everything."

I looked at him again, Ginger Nut poised to my lips.

"Is it?"

"Yes. Very entertaining."

"Could you send me the link?" I said after a pause. "Because I don't know if I'm going to be able to find it on my own."

This, I think, is one of the many reasons my grandad is so amazing. While I am still battling with Twitter (seriously, what does it do?), while my mother continues to send emails accidentally in italics, while I am still showing my father how to vote for me - every single time he votes for me - my octogenarian grandad is happily surfing the internet, collecting my coverage and monitoring forums for any additional information that might help my cause. He is technologically both fearless and curious, and nothing daunts him. It's just another example of astounding courage: of being able to adapt to and embrace the new, as well as holding on to everything traditional that still means something.

"Is there anything up there I should know about?" I said in a small voice. "Anything I might not want to read?"

"If there is," he said, grinning at me, "then I'll make sure it comes straight down again."

Grandad, thankyou. For policing the internet for me, and for proving to me yet again that there is nothing out there too daunting if you have the courage to take it on the chin.

The Nearly-But-Not-Quite Girl

"Do you think you'll win this competition?" a journalist asked me a couple of days ago.
"No," I said without even thinking about it: not for me the blind optimism of the truly confident. "Almost definitely not," I added.
"Why not?" she said.
"Because I never do," was the only answer I could come up with.

I am, I have realised, The Nearly-But-Not-Quite-Girl. I always have been. As a child, I was Angel Gabriel, not Mary. I was the Queen, not Snow White. The Blue Fairy, not Pinnochio (damn gender restrictions). I gave Cambridge University a shot, and got the last question so badly wrong that the lecturer put her head in her hands. I spent my BA getting 69s (ehehe, no, not in a sexual way: just one mark off a first) and I missed a distinction in my Masters by one point. My friends are always a tiny bit more beautiful than me, a tiny bit more funny than me, and a tiny bit more clever than me.

"You're awesome," the boy who broke my heart said when he decided he didn't want to see me again, "but you're just not..."
"Brunette?" I offered, helpfully.
"...quite right for me," he finished gently.

And, it's true, it's not a bad place to be in. The Nearly-But-Not-Quite-Girl is in a much better position than the Nowhere-Near-Girl, or the Don't-Even-Bother-Trying-Because-It-Never-Works-Girl. And it's infinitely better than being the Why-Don't-You-Just-Give-Up-And-Go-Home-Girl. So I'm pretty happy with my lot. It gives me something to keep aspiring to and aiming for, and I may never quite reach the stars but at least I consistently end up on the moon.

So will I win this competition? Will I even get into the final? My assessment is no: I'll probably be number 12. Which is still a brilliant place to be, in the scale of things, and I should thank my lucky stars that I got to be part of something that so many other people could only watch.

But I'd be lying if there wasn't a tiny part of me that still hopes that one day - in one way - one lecturer, one job, one man will turn to me and tell me I'm The Right Girl.

First Date

"So," my sister rang to say this morning, "I've got a question. Is this Producer Boy blind?"

I narrowed my eyes at the phone, knowing where this was going.

"No."

"And does he have hands?"

I looked at the phone again, now not so sure where this was going.

"Yes."

"And is he over the age of seven, and under the age of seventy?"

"Yes," I replied after a short pause.

"So, would it be fair to assume, Holly, that Producer Boy has the physical attributes and technological capabilities that will allow him to - how do I put this - read your Blog?"

Ah. Yes. The eternal Writer's Quandry. If you're not totally honest, your writing gets lost. And if you are totally honest, your life does. You have to, in essence, choose: to tell, or to live. And, if you're a writer, there is often no choice. You choose the story, and you risk the characters in it.

So:

Had my first date with Producer Boy (henceforth known as PB) last night, and it went very well. At least, I think it went very well. Who ever knows? In the Old Days (every girl has Old Days: it's usually when they didn't shake their heads and mutter "men" under their breaths) I trusted my instincts on these things. If a date seemed like it went well, then it went well. Unfortunately, my instincts - along with my heart - have been severely trampled on in the last last few years, so I don't even give them the time of day anymore. "Bugger off," I say to my instincts nowadays. "You know nothing about men, or love, or sex, so keep your flamin' little noses out of it."

Within minutes, PB and I had both decided that we had met each other before: which would be cheesy, if we both weren't so sure that it was a literal, physical reality, rather than some terrible romantic line. "Could it be from a radio studio last Saturday?" I quipped nervously, and - bless him - PB did his best to laugh. That's the great thing about first dates, you see: they do their best to laugh. Give it six dates, and they stop trying, roll their eyes and say jesus under their breaths.

"No, because I thought I knew you then as well," he said.

"Maybe it's because I've been on telly?" I joked again, and then I had to put my head in my hands and say "God, you know what? I've not been on a date in six months, so you're going to have to bear with me. Nerves are making me sound like a tosser."

And they continued doing so, unfortunately. I don't remember most of the things I said - the human brain shuts away painful memories, luckily - but I'm pretty sure that most of them were motivated from nerves and made me sound like a plonker. His - if he had any - didn't, and he was perfectly lovely. Which just made me feel worse. We had dinner, drinks, laughter, 'what's your sister called?' questions: it was, all in all, a perfectly normal First Date. Especially the bit where he glazed over for a good three minutes, I panicked and talked faster, and then he glazed over a little more, and I talked a little faster, until - just as I was nervously talking so fast that my head was about to fall off - he swooped in and gave me a kiss.

"Did you glaze over because you were bored?" I asked him. "Or because you couldn't work out how to shut me up so that you could give me a kiss?"

"The latter," he said. So I calmed down and stopped talking so fast so that he could do it again.

Normality ends here, unfortunately. The next time we see each other (unless he cancels it: which I wouldn't blame him for) will be at Talk Sport. In front of 3.5 million listeners again.

"Do you know how much damage we could do to each other?" I said as we parted ways at Oxford Circus tube. "This isn't a normal date. I could say that you have bad breath and are a terrible kisser. You could insinuate that I stayed the night. We could destroy each other."

"It's alright," he said. "You've got a blog and a BBC film crew, but I've got a national radio station, so at least we're evenly matched."

Which, if anything, actually made me like him a little more.

Correction

When I said: we're animals, essentially, and no animal would choose to sit in a dark room when they can play in the sun, I was being a little narrow-minded. Moles would go for the dark room. As would bats, owls and flying squirrels.

Must learn to stop making grand statements that mean diddley squat.

Outdoorsy versus Indoorsy

"I've decided," my dad said decisively a few minutes ago, "that you need to show the Queensland people that you're more outdoorsy."

"As opposed to...?"

"Indoorsy, obviously."

"Is indoorsy a word, dad?"

Dad ignored me.

"You don't want them to think that you just sit around all day typing. So, why don't you do a scuba diving course or something?"

"Where am I going to do that?"

"London?"

"London? Are there many scuba diving places in London?"

"Probably. They've got everything in London. You need to show that you can scuba dive."

"I can't though."

"For God's sake, don't tell them that."

"But, dad, wouldn't you rather read a blog or watch a video about someone who can't scuba dive, and is having fun trying anyway? It would be hysterical. Anyway, most tourists can't scuba dive. Wouldn't they rather know what it's like in the Whitsundays learning, rather than already knowing how to? It would be funny."

"I don't think funny is what they're looking for, Holly. I think they want to know that you're an outdoorsy type. Not an indoorsy type. And yes, indoorsy is a bloody word."

Is he right? The thing is: who is 'indoorsy' by nature? You're 'indoorsy' by circumstance, aren't you? I'm a Londoner. I have grown up with trips to Brighton as my only real sea-experience (and I've got photos of me in the sea on New Years Eve, aged four, to prove it). I climb hills, when I can find them. I swim, when I can find a large expanse of water. I ride elephants/camels etc when I can get my paws on them. But there just aren't that many in Welwyn Garden City (and it's something I have often considered complaining to the local council about).

Put anyone - Londoner or not - on a beautiful island, surrounded by water and islands and caves and animals, and they'll show you they're 'outdoorsy'. I defy them not to. We're animals, essentially, and no animal would choose to sit in a dark room when they can play in the sun. But proving I'm 'outdoorsy'? It's a tricky one.

"Well," dad said when I explained this to him. "I'm only going to say it one more time, Hols. You need to start jogging. That's outdoorsy, at least."

Get him, mum. 

My sister responds

"Ae yu famus enugh yet t buy me a pesent?" she emailed me. "Because Dan vmited n my laptp and nw the [R] and [O] and the [Q] key dn't wk. If you'e paying attentin, that means that nw my iPd, my phne and my laptp are brken. Please get ich and send me all f the abve uickly." 

I scrolled down.

"h," she added, "and if yu lie about me, I'm ging t either sue yu r beat yu up, I haven't decided yet. But it'll be bad. Lve lve lve."

I don't lie, sister. As a writer of fiction, I may sometimes stretch the truth for the good of the story. That's not lying: that's using your imagination. Just ask Clinton.

And no, Tara, I can't buy you a laptop. I can't even buy a WHAM bar from the newsagents, so distinct is my poverty. I suggest you get a pen out and write your Rs and Os and Qs on the computer screen as you go. And keep technology away from the toilet and your boyfriend. x

Hammering in a nail with a pound of butter

The problem with fictional characters is that they have no respect for the fact that you created them in the first place. They just don't care, that's the thing.

"Elsie," I said to one of mine five minutes ago. Elsie, for the record, is a 61 year old cross between Father Christmas and Queen Victoria. "Could you try being a little more affectionate in this chapter, please? The scene lacks warmth."

"Lacks warmth?" she replied. "What nonsense. You can't hammer a nail in with a pound of butter, love."

"What the hell does that mean?" I say tiredly, putting my hand over my eyes.

"Don't you worry yourself about it. Now, pet, you're in no position to be nagging, in fairness. I've not seen hide nor hair of you in weeks. None of us have."

I start to kick my feet against the walls of my imagination like a teenager.

"I've been a bit busy," I say sulkily. "This job thing came up, and I... You know. Got distracted."

"Well that's all very well and good," she replied briskly, "but what are we supposed to do in the meantime, eh? You've left me with no knitting or anything to keep me busy."

"I know all about fame," Mike butts in, "being a writer myself, but you have to remember that I'm trying to win my pregnant girlfriend back, and I can't do that if you don't write the bloody scene in the first place."

"You're not a writer, Mike," I point out gently. "You're an accountant."

Mike bridles.

"What's that got to do with anything? I can write, can't I? How hard can it be, for God's sake? And it's not like you've ever been paid for it, either. I'm as much of a writer as you are."

"Fair point," I say.

"Michael," Elsie butts in. "You're getting away from the point. Young lady, we need you to get back here and keep us going. What are we going to do in the meantime? We're all bored rigid: we've been standing in the same position for a fortnight now."

"We'll be alright," Imogen says quietly. "Honestly, Hols. It'll be fine. Make the most of it, and don't worry about us."

"Couldn't give less of a shit, actually,' Molly interjects. "This is so not all about you."

Harold and Marianne, in the meantime, are both in the garden: too busy ignoring each other to notice that I'm even missing.

"Enough," I finally shouted at them. "You just behave, the lot of you: for the love of God, behave! You're my creations, and if I need to do something else then I need to do something else! You just sit quietly and deal with it like the imaginary characters you are, and leave me to get on with whatever I'm doing, okay?"

"Not really," Elsie points out reasonably, hoisting up her bra with her hands. "It doesn't work like that, pet, and you know it as well as we do."

And she's right. It doesn't work like that. Whatever happens with this competition - however long I'm away - I never really let them go. They're always lurking in the back of my head somewhere: smoking, throwing things, crying, picking spots, doing whatever it is they're doing when I'm not there. And they don't care that I created them: they do their own things, willy nilly, as if they owe me nothing at all. Demanding, insensitive, noisy. And it can be exhausting, but I love it.

I thought I wasn't ready for children, but apparently I've already got six of them.

Smale throws toys out of pram

Woke up this morning and knew it was going to be a good day. The sun was shining, the sparrows were a-twittering in the hedgerows (yes, they were 'a-twittering': what's wrong with that?) and the cat was making a sulky racket outside because she couldn't get in and we have a new sofa that she wants to claw. Yes, I thought - smiling in the sunshine - it's going to be a good one. I can feel it in my bones. And on my face. Amazing what a bit of sun can do for the spirits and the complexion (it's all the vitamin B, you know: clears zits right up).

And then I get a text. Problem, Producer Boy says. BBC have emailed me, they want to come.

"It'll be thoughtful and sensitive, promise," they remonstrated when I rang up to shout at them. "From a distance. Romantic."

"Would you like us to hold hands before we've even had a drink, and that way you can get a good shot quickly? We could skip down the street a bit, if you want."

"Can you?" 

"No."

So I threw my toys out of the pram in the most polite and English way I could. No, I said, they couldn't come. No, they couldn't film from a distance. No, they couldn't put it on the tv for millions to watch. Jesus, I said. So they've backed down, thank God. Producer Boy was - unsurprisingly - not impressed, and I was even less so. What kind of a mad world is it where asking to film a first date is considered normal? First dates can be scary and awkward and embarrassing enough (which cheek do you go to kiss? What if you talk over each other? What if you have nothing to say? What if you discover that they smell of Stilton?) without having it documented forever. There are some first dates I've been on that I wouldn't like to be reminded of the next morning, let alone four months later. (The date who picked up a temporary bus stop and then shouted at me "grab the other end! This one's coming with me," for instance.)

Anyway. It's all fixed. Date is still on (he hasn't freaked and cancelled, which is actually very impressive), BBC have been poked with a big, pointy stick, and I can relax enough to start panicking about normal date stuff. Normal date stuff like which of my clothes is the least crazy and 'cat-woman', whether to take my red nail varnish off because it looks both tarty and slightly old-lady, how long before I get there can I smoke so that he doesn't smell it on me. That's normal date stuff, right? It's like a job interview, after all. You have to hide the real you as deep down as it can possibly go.

Luckily, the sun is still shining, the sparrows are still a-twittering, and the cat is sounding increasingly pathetic on the patio outside. I shall go and let her in. 

I think it's going to be a good day after all.

The BBC have kindly agreed, after a bit of persuasion, not to come on my date tomorrow, which is very considerate of them. They suggested "asking (producer boy - i'm not saying his name: that's not fair, it's me in this circus, not him) if they could interview him before the date," and I put my foot down. There's weirdness - being asked out on national radio, strangers Facebooking me to ask 'when my date is', having the BBC at my house filming me make a Pot Noodle - and then there's just that one step too far. And having a first date interviewed for BBC One before you even know if they've got any siblings or like, for instance, cheese (he'd better: I only like and trust one person who doesn't like cheese, and I'm limiting it at that), is one step too far.

Instead, they are going to come to Saturday's radio live show to ask him what he thinks of me on camera. I'm in some kind of media/romantic zoo, apparently. I'm half expecting somebody to chuck me a fish and ask me to dance for my dinner.

I think I can safely say that - for a deeply private, if gobby, person - this is, without a doubt, the strangest couple of weeks I have ever had. It's hard enough getting a date at all, without doing it in front of the nation. Usually (and why this is, I don't know. I can only assume I don't give off very appealing vibes) I just get a "want to pop over after the pubs close?" suggestion, which doesn't really appeal to the Elizabeth Bennet in me. Frankly, I'm not going to blame my date in the slightest if he shrugs at the camera and says "yeah, whatever. Not all that, eh. She talks with her mouth full, actually".

My dad is going to go bloody nuts. At least producer boy likes football, though. I can try and appease him with that.

Keeping it in the family Part Three

"If you want to write about something other than yourself," my sister said a few minutes ago, "write about me. My iPod is behaving like my boyfriend: it either fails to work at all, or it's too loud, or it teases me by pretending it's working and then turning off all of a sudden. Do you think it's because I dropped it down the toilet?"

"Your boyfriend?"

"No, but do you think that would help if I tried dropping him in there too?"

"Is he going to fit?"

"He will if I chop him into tiny pieces first."

"You're going to need to get one of those toilet un-blockers, because I reckon he's not water soluble."

"Good idea. I'll pick one up from Sainsburys on my way back from Uni. Now, bugger off and go and write something about me. I want a bit of this fame too, you know. Mum and dad and the cat have got some, so give me some love too."

Done, Tara. Done.

Why gambling is illegal everywhere but the UK

Still need to tidy bedroom, and need to stop blogging. This is why I haven't had one before: obsessive compulsive personality, a furious passion for writing and a blog site doth not a good combination make.

Sarah (other Brit girl candidate) and I have just come to a conclusion, via text:

For the sake of £70,000 and an island, we have potentially gambled our lives away. Our friends are sick of us, the public will hate us (when the BBC thing comes out), everyone now knows that we are unemployed, single, broke and directionless, our overdrafts are spent, our secrets are public, and we will be - ultimately - unemployable when this is all over. That's a hefty price to pay for a long shot at a job we probably won't get. So we've decided: a) buy large bottle of rum when announcements are made and find a dark room b) buy two fake moustaches, a shack in South America and two passports under the names of 'Sven' and 'Gloria'.

Then we can apply for South American Big Brother and do it all over again.

Game Plan

"So," my friend said last night, sitting down abruptly and patting the chair next to her. "What's the game plan?"
"Eh?" I replied succinctly.
"Game plan," she repeated. "You know. When you're playing Monopoly, you have to decide whether you're going to build lots of hotels fast on the cheap areas, or invest in a few of the expensive ones in the hope that you can bankrupt your enemies in one sitting, or go for all the Utilities, which is the lazy option but tends to work. You always have a game plan. So, what's the game plan for this job thing?"

I stared at her for a few seconds. When I play Monopoly, I just buy anything that comes up and then get sent to jail for the rest of the game.

"Umm," I said eventually. "Being myself?"
My friend closed her eyes briefly.
"Is that Being Yourself at your best, with full makeup and the right answers to questions, Holly, or is that Being Yourself in your pyjamas with your hair sticking up and crap anecdotes about swans?"
There was a short pause.
"The swan one," I admitted eventually.
My friend shook her head. "I haven't been on holiday for ages, Smale," she said sadly. "Can't you at least try to be someone else for a while? Anyone else will do."

But I can't, you see. The Self - like his younger brother, Will (ahahah, that was a great one) - is a wiley fellow, and he pops up even when you don't expect him to. Down, you say to it crossly. The BBC are here, you say: can you please avoid humiliating yourself? But it makes no difference: it pops back up again when you least expect it.

"Have you hurt your arm?" I said in concern to one of the British candidates on Sunday night in front of a film crew, pointing at a white band around his arm: "or [it begins to dawn]... oh God, is that fashion? Sorry." [Film crew starts laughing, I hide under table.]

No matter where you go or what you do, The Self Will Out (has Will Self written a book called that, yet? He needs to). And it's incredibly depressing. Imagine: in a normal job interview, you go in, you do your bit, you lie through your teeth ("You see, I'd say my problem is that I'm just too punctual and an inherent perfectionist. Oh, and did I mention that I take my expenses home with me every night and type them up on the computer to make them easier to read?") and then you go home again. But three weeks of being watched from afar? Of tests and writing and God Only Knows what else? You can't hide the Real You: it's impossible. You cock up, you swear, you cry, you show inconsistencies, you prove that you really don't know how to scuba dive at all. There's no getting away from it.

Only the world's most disingenuous person could come across well for an entire three weeks: only a person who knows exactly what to say and when to say it, and can hide the Real Self completely. And would that be interesting? Would that be interesting for six months? Would I read a blog written by someone who always says the right thing? Probably not. It would be dull as hell.

Would I give it to someone who is so inept at hiding it, though? No. I probably wouldn't do that, either. They'd accidentally accuse other candidates of being dull as hell in a Blog, which could be read by other candidates.

To be honest, I think it's all a big mistake. They shouldn't be testing us and giving us psychometric tests and watching us from afar. They should just get a massive Monopoly board, give us a few rounds of shots and get us all to play. See what we do. See who takes the expensive spots and then just sits there; see who buys up all the pink and brown areas and then hoards their paper money for the rest of the game (touching it fondly now and then). See how quickly they grab the money from their opponents: how many narrowed eyes there are. Who gets up to 'go to the toilet' and 'accidentally' knocks over the board so that nobody's quite sure where their hotels were in the first place.

At least then - when I'm sitting in jail with my hotels all repossessed and a ten pound note that somebody has lent me out of pity - I'll be out of harm's way, and I won't be able to blog about it.